In Retrospect
by Pleading Eyes
Summary: Meg looks back on all that happened in the aftermath of Don Juan and how the disaster led to her imprisonment by a man she first believed a ghost, then a madman, and finally her soul mate. But does absolution come too late, only in retrospect?
1. Through The Looking Glass

**Inspiration: **Nothing really. Just felt like writing something serious for once. No twiny! Not Sirius! Serious! I know, I know. You love Sirius Black. I love Erik the Phantom. Moving on...

**Disclaimer: **Don't own it. That's why I'm writing fanfiction. Wish I owned it. I also wish I had magical powers and coul conjure up Erik right now and love him and keep him and... (Link: AHEM!) ... and then put him aside once in a while to pay attention to Link too! Heh... heh... Yeah...

**Clarification: **Characters based on the 2004 movie because I adore Gerry's interpretation. Except the deformity because I think it could've been so much better. And the swordfight because, seriously, Erik losing to Raoul? A fop? A FOP? Just trim his hair! It's the source of his power!

**  
In Retrospect**

I write now not to justify any of his actions nor to portray myself as a victim of circumstance. I am as much the saving grace as he is a monster; which, if one truly understands, they realize neither of us is.

As the mob searched furiously, their track of mind temporarily paralyzed at the sight of such treasures, I found myself with the ghost in my hands. It was white, made of leather. So difficult it was to believe that such a small, harmless thing had seen the deaths of several. It was almost lovely, sculpted to fit or give the impression of chiseled features, in a painfully ironic way. My finger traced the outline of the eyehole, remembering the blazing iris that had shined through it, even in the darkness.

How could any person ever live in such a place, especially alone? So cold, so damp and dark, but most of all so quiet. Perhaps that was why he could write such divine music, music that could inspire our blackest passions and bring them to the surface until it was impossible to hide them, even from ourselves. In such suffocating silence, what brilliance could be unearthed, echoing from the black fire licking the cavern walls?

It was then that I had noticed the curtain, hanging in the middle of the wall, seeming so misplaced amidst the shattered mirrors. And truly, when I pulled back the velvet there was a tunnel, through which I was certain he had escaped. Was it curiosity that led me to follow him? Or was it anger, a thirst to see the man who had destroyed my home and threatened my dearest friend? The truth is, it was neither. Well, perhaps curiosity played a part, but mostly it was something else. I was just a ballet rat, nothing more. It was only natural that I often fantasized about ghosts and adventure, mystery and intrigue, just as Christine did about her Angel of Music. More than anything I think it was the need to feel special, to be the only one who followed the Phantom, who found him! I did not think ahead, of what I would do once I found him. It didn't matter. That was too far ahead of me and the tunnel was too dark to allow foresight.

A door shut behind me as soon as I entered; a rigged cover to his tracks which had activated itself belatedly. I knew I couldn't be too far behind.

I shall not go into detail about the confrontation which was to follow. But it was no ghost that I came upon. Only a broken man, not sure whether he was furious at me for the violation of his home or if he was too miserable to care. It was strange, watching him curse me and fling threats one moment and seeing him sink to the floor, weakened by his own internal hell the next. Perhaps that was why I followed him to the floor. Perhaps it was his confusion which bewitched me, or memories of his seductive song only hours prior, or the look of pure desperation. Perhaps it was the whimper, so like an abandoned child, which stirred compassion in me. Or, in retrospect, it might have just been my maternal core trembling, needing to hold and nurture this child at my feet, even if he took on the form of a grown man.

Whatever the reason, I knelt beside him, moving his hands away from his face. His horrible, poor face which seemed so less frightening with the glimmer of tears streaming down his cheeks. I had no thoughts as I brought my own hands to his head and pulled him to my chest; where I held him. I felt nothing as I rocked him in my arms, telling him he was not alone, swearing that I would stay with him until the pain passed, lying to him; telling him he was beautiful. Or at least, it was a lie at the time for I knew him not personally and his face was vile! I was ignorant, then, of the goodness of his soul and the richness of his spirit.

Still I stayed, rocking him as one would a toddler and cooing into his ear as one would an infant. With every tender sound his sobs only increased until his pain broke through the haze around my mind and pressed two fingers against my heart. I felt tears begin to prick my own eyes and soon I was weeping with him, for him. So much emotion surged up in me, and it was not even my own! I could not control my body. It went of its own accord and began to stroke his back and his neck, combing through the poor tufts of hair that he had on one side and the soft, thick locks on the other. I stifled my own sobs by kissing his head, an act which resulted in him gripping my shirt in desperate need for release. Release of his pain, whatever its source, which had taken him so deep that even I, barely skimming the surface, could feel the chilling effects.

When finally his sobs began to slow and his trembling relaxed, his grip began to loosen. Still I continued to caress his neck and back, transfixed by how suddenly and powerfully his sorrow had come to me and then gone, just as abruptly. Minutes after his tears had been spent, he made no move. I said nothing, I did nothing. I was not frightened, not holding him as I was. Yet I knew I was not thinking clearly, though I cared not to clear my thoughts.

It seemed forever until he finally took a deep, shuddering breath and moved away; turning his face so that I could not see. I stayed, my arms falling limp into my lap. The fog around my mind thickened and I felt conscious drifting away.

Staring out into space, I did not, could not register what had just happened. I did not realize I had just held the Phantom of the Opera in my arms. I did not comprehend that I had comforted the Opera Ghost as if he was a small child. It might as well all have been a distant dream. Not even my own dream but that of another person, far from here.

"Marguerite." He said sharply, coldly, suddenly. I blinked, coming back to my senses, and stood. Only then did I register what had happened, what _was_ happening. I felt my legs begin to shake as reality set back in. His voice was back to its usual, menacing ways. I was afraid.

He turned towards me, his hand now covering the right side of his face almost ashamedly. I swallowed my shivers and stole my strength to reach into my bosom and pull out the white mask I had found in his home. The ghost.

I held it out, only slightly. Really, I wanted nothing more than to get it as far from me as possible, but my arm would not stretch very far without trembling.

In one quick, fluid motion he had snatched up the mask and replaced it on his face. How long had he worn that mask that he could place it so easily, as if it were a part of him?

Then he stood before me, tall and changed. No trace of the man I had held was to be found. No, this was no man. What stood before me then was a ghost. _The_ ghost. For a moment I wondered if I was going to die and how. Would it be quick, painless and silent? Or would he prolong my execution, to inflict as much pain as possible, so that my screams would echo off the cavern walls and keep the music in his twisted mind company?

Then he was speaking. "We must go. You cannot return the way you came. The passage is sealed so that only I can open it. And to open it would be to reveal myself. It is your life of mine, young Giry, and I am afraid I cannot afford to be chivalrous at the moment. I have done your mother the favor of not killing her only daughter. It is a pity she will never know." He picked his torch from the wall and walked further down the tunnel, not even signaling for me to follow. He called back only once saying "I cannot be held responsible for you actions, however mademoiselle. If you choose to act irresponsibly, I cannot promise your wellbeing."

I would not stay there in the dark so I followed, blindly, knowing now that he would not kill me. But that did not mean he would not _hurt_ me and what was more, he had said my mother would not see that he had spared my life. I was a prisoner and he could do what he wanted with me. Surprisingly, the thought did not frighten as much as it should have. The fog was beginning to settle again. It had been a long night, after all. In retrospect, I was exhausted.

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Please reveiw and tell me how I am at writing something besides humor. Thank you.  



	2. Streams In The Desert

The tunnel began to shrink before us, condensing and tightening, trying to crush us. After all, who would notice if a ghost and one of many ballet rats disappeared? Perhaps the world would be a better place for it. And even in that tight space, I felt so small. It was him, I know now. In retrospect, there was always an air about him; of a man who knows so much of the world though he has seen so little of it, that made me feel like such a small part of something much, much bigger.

But I did not look at it in those terms. Not at the time. Then I had thought of my intrusion upon his life more as a second act. Christine had been the first one and she had ended her scene by leaving, unconcerned for what would happen next, thinking that the story was over. She didn't know that after the curtain fell that the second act began, that now it fell to me to see where this man ended. That is, until the third act. I did not know if I would be a part of that, or if I would still even be alive. Perhaps I was already dead, for no _living_ person could ever feel so numb as I did at the moment.

Then the walls came so close together that I was forced to huddle against him, feeling the heat from his fevered skin diffuse through his thin shirt and infuse itself into my own chilled body. It almost burned! But forced into such intimate contact, with my breasts pressed relentlessly into his back and my hands desperately gripping his shoulders for guidance, woke sensations in me. I was no longer numb. Being this close to him, feeling that rise and fall of his breathing against my chest, made me realize that I was very much and devastatingly alive.

The tunnel opened gradually, the walls progressively separating and stretching into a great cavern. A small, steady stream of water trickled at my feet; barely as wide as both my thumbs pressed together though seemingly miles in length. Having water so readily available reminded me of the fire I had escaped from only hours prior and of how dry my throat felt, how I thirsted.

Erik made a point of removing himself from me, as if my touch disgusted him now. There was suddenly so much hatred emanating from him towards me, and I was oblivious as to _why_. Not too long before I had held him in my arms and he has wept into me with full trust. What had changed? I had not even spoken a word in the time since he had separated himself from my comfort. Why the sudden offense? I was completely in ignorance then, but looking back I can see why he might have acted as he did. He was angry, not at me but at himself. He had shown weakness in a crucial moment and there is little one can do to bury a first impression. What was more, he had dropped full guard before a stranger; some random ballet rat who could have been out for his head, or worse just for the gossiping rights. In his turmoil he had no defense left but to project that anger onto another, to pass the blame to the only other available candidate. It was _my_ fault for coming after him. _I_ had somehow tricked him. _I_ was a harlot of a woman who had deceived him as he grieved the loss of his beautiful Christine.

In retrospect, it was all quite childish of him. Inconsiderate to say the least, considering he was kidnapping me. But I didn't blame him then and I can hardly blame him now.

Unable to bear his sudden aloofness, I knelt beside the stream. I let my fingertips brush the soft flow, the cold seeping into my bones. Yet the icy touch was gentle. I let myself relax, even as shivers began to trouble me. Then, cupping my fingers to gather as much water as I could from the small trickle, I dipped my hands into the stream. I felt the water slowly fill my chilled hands and prepared to lift them to my lips.

"I would refrain if I were you, mademoiselle." My head snapped up, hearing him speak to me for the first time since my initial imprisonment. He stood at the far end of the cavern, as far from me as possible. He seemed to be searching for… _something_. How had he seen me clear across the cave, in the dark, with his back turned to me, even as he focused on another task?

I turned my gaze back to the stream, though my attention remained with him. Why would he not want me to drink? Was it simply an act of cruelty on his part? To keep me parched and deny me any relief as he had been denied? I did not understand then and the possibility that he would do anything based solely on cruelty frightened me. But looking back, it was not an act of cruelty or of frustration. The water was probably polluted with traces of soot from the fire above us. The water from the lake was used to power several utilities in the Opera House. The stream was probably coming from the lake and would contain trace amounts of soot and other filth. In retrospect he was even showing concern, however reluctant, for my health.

Still, my own frustration and the darkness did not allow me this insight and I found myself frightened, thirsty, and now angry. The water was so close. Why couldn't I have just a taste? Just to soothe my inflamed throat, if not to quench my thirst?

I looked back. He seemed so engrossed in his task. Perhaps he would not notice if I moved slowly and made no sound. Just a lick of water, if even that. Keeping my eyes locked on his shadow of an outline, I dipped my hand gradually, barely into the water. When I detected the slightest amount of dampness I turned to face my hand and brought my fingers to my mouth.

But before I could make contact I felt my wrist stiffen painfully. I tried to move it, to shake away the pain, but then I realized that something was _holding_ me. _Or someone. _It became clear that a powerful hand had gripped my small wrist and was now holding me with just enough force to splinter bone if he so chose. How had he moved so rapidly across the cavern so that I did not even notice he had gripped me until a few seconds after? And how had he traveled the distance, not only so quickly, but so _quietly_?

I felt a pop in my wrist. Not of breaking bone, but of a joint loosening slightly in an attempt to relieve pressure. Against my better judgment I let out a squeal. He released me immediately and I found myself cradling my wrist against my chest as I had done to him not too long ago.

"I do not tolerate disobedience, _Marguerite_!" He spat, right into my ear. His breath was hot and dripping with spite. "If you go against me again I will be forced to take back my favor to your _dear_ mother." Having him so close, having his hatred pounding against me, stimulated beyond my defenses. I felt my eyes begin to prickle. I fought the oncoming tears, refusing to let him reduce me to a sniveling child. I only had to wait until he moved away so I could calm myself. It was his pitiless presence that was weakening me.

But he did not distance himself and the pricking worsened. Still I resisted until my vision, limited as it was with such slight light, blurred before me. I could not make out my own hands in the blur and I made the mistake of blinking to clear my sight.

Tears spilled forth like long restrained water breaking through a dam. I did not make a sound but the flicker of his torch reflected the sparkle sliding down my cheeks. How could he not notice? I was shedding rivers.

I wish I could say that was the moment when everything changed. I wish I could write that seeing my tears brought to memory how I had comforted him and that he returned the gesture; as sincerely as he could manage amidst his own anguish. But there was no sympathy of the sort to be found. I was met with only a dry chuckle of the cruelest kind.

"Pining for home already? I fear you will not fare very long if that is the limit of your resilience." He stood, staring down at me as if I belonged at his feet, worth little more than the dirt. I did not lift my head to meet his stare. "But what more could I expect from some whoreish ballet rat?" He turned, striding back to what he was searching for. I heard him mutter to himself on the way. "Even if she is a Giry."

Distanced from him I felt the paralyzing fear lift. The prickling sensation in my eyes vanished. I tried to move my wrist in rotations but it throbbed in complaint so I tucked it back in the safety of my other hand.

On the other side of the cavern he had found for what he had been searching. A passage; hidden so well that even he, who had constructed it, had difficulty placing it. He bent at the knee to lift his torch and stood, sweeping his arm in a mock gesture of welcome. I rose defiantly and stepped passed him, my expression too haughty for a prisoner. It was an unwise action. In retrospect, my pride often led me to behave brashly. Though I suppose my brashness also held strength and I would need every ounce of that strength for what was to come. Not only for myself, but for him.

Making my way through the passage, I found myself in a cellar. Not like the long, large, plentiful cellars of the Opera house; but a room-sized cellar as one would find in a house to store wine or food stuffs. It was dusty and cold but the smooth walls and the concrete floor put me at ease. We had left the catacombs. I had returned to the normal world. I had forgotten he was behind me. I was still a prisoner. My return meant nothing if I did not have my freedom.

He came up, his torch brightening the room but bringing me only dread. I kept my eyes fixed on my ruined, soiled shoes. He did not even glance at me as he walked by, to a set of stairs, and opened the door to the house. I took a deep breath and followed.

The house was surprisingly well lit and tastefully decorated. It lacked the luxury of his underground dwelling but in retrospect, I suppose that was the point. This was not meant to be a place of mysteries and deception. It was meant to be a home. A _normal_ home.

I noticed immediately that there appeared to be only one bedroom. In his lair there had been two. Why the change?

Then it came to me, squeezing my heart and shattering through my own momentary lapse into self-pity. It _was_ meant to be a home. A home for him…_ and his wife._

"Christine…" I mouthed to myself. Though I made not a sound he caught the movement of my lips.

"Would you care to repeat that, Marguerite?" But his threatening tone made it quite clear that it was a demand, not a request.

"I said…" I looked up at him for the first time in the light. He was terribly disheveled, without his wig part of his deformity was exposed to the air, and though his glare was menacing I could see the tracts of dried tears. Lower down his ruffled shirt lay open revealing an ironically chiseled chest. "I said we match!" I replied without thinking, a compassionate laugh escaping my throat.

"What?" he snapped, more than mildly irritated.

"Our… clothing." Our tight auburn pants, our ruffled once-white shirts; without my dress and without his coat, our Don Juan costumes were the identical.

His visible eye twitched at the realization but he found no amusement in it. Instead he gruffly sent me to bed. I made to complain but decided against it, remembering his threat beside the stream. Silently I stepped to bed.

The room was gorgeous. Strange, oriental, paper lamps hung on the walls and Arabic rugs lined the floor. A lush, oyster-formed bed with thick, velvet curtains stood as the centerpiece. In the corner was an intricately carved wardrobe. Remembering how filthy I was from my adventuring in the catacombs, I opened the wardrobe a peered inside. It was surprising to find so many women's dresses, and such fine ones at that! But I understood that they had probably been made for Christine. My chest ached at the though of _any_ man purchasing such beautiful dresses, and probably at great personal risk, only to know they would never be used. I sighed and searched for a loose fitting nightgown, settling on one of cerulean silk.

There was a private washroom in the room and I took full advantage. I removed my, now nearly black, shirt and tight auburn pants. As I moved to throw the grimy clothes in a corner, a mirror caught my eye. I stopped to inspect myself and nearly wretched at the sight. My face and hands were as dirty as my clothes and my hair was matted with clumps of grease.

I considered bathing. A warm bath sounded heavenly and I deserved it! After all, my home had been burned down, my closest friend had disappeared, and I had been kidnapped. It was not the best of days. But I knew that this was the only bedroom in the house and it bothered me as to where _he_ would sleep. If he intended to sleep here as well then I had no time for baths. I could risk keeping him awake, and thus his wrath as well. Not even the warmest of baths was worth the gamble. Instead I found a sink with, thank the heavens, running water. I thoroughly scrubbed my hands, face, and even my hair until I appeared somewhat presentable. At least until I was, for the most part, clean. I did not bother to brush my unruly locks, however, and simply squeezed out the excess water which ran black into the sink, a sharp contrast against the white of my skin and the blonde of my hair.

Feeling the burden of filth lifted, I took the nightgown. Only then did I realize I was lacking undergarments. No corset, no chemise. The Don Juan pants and shirt had required none. With trepidation I slipped into the nightgown, the soft silk ticklish against my skin. I looked at myself once more in the mirror and blushed. The nightgown was all but transparent.

But there was no solution to it. So with a sigh and nod I walked out, shutting the door behind me. I pulled back the velvety sheets and slipped into the oyster. Silk against velvet, the sensation was delicious; I imagined myself a pearl.

He was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he would be sleeping elsewhere? Perhaps I still had time for that bath after all? But all thoughts and plans of baths would have to wait because the silk and the velvet were too soft and warm and I was too tired. The plush pillows did nothing to contradict this. I was asleep before I could give the bath a second thought.

I woke only once in the night with the feeling of weight opposite myself on the bed. My eyes snapped open and I instantly remembered I was not in my room. The air in y room was filled with the snores of other dancers and my bed was not nearly as warm or as soft or as large.

I was facing the edge so I made no move to inform the added weight that I had woken. He made no move to approach me but just lay there, opposite me, his back turned to me as well.

Time drifted, floating around us and in us, passing by relentlessly, yet neither of us found sleep. I out of fear. He for reasons of his own, I could only speculate. Then, after what seemed like hours of silence and forced stillness, I felt him shift. He had turned to face me, I knew. I could feel those blazing orbs for eyes of his boring into my back. I made no move but concentrated on keeping my breathing even.

After another while I felt him shift closer. I made no move but kept focused on my even breathing. In… and out… In… and out…

Then, slowly, a hand crept under the sheets to rest on my arm. Nothing more, nothing less. In that moment I felt a thousand paths open to me. Thousands of paths for millions of mixed emotions. In retrospect, I'm certain I would have chosen fear, thinking of how terrifying his closeness had become to me since his threat. But what I noticed then blocked off the path of fear, though not of caution. The hand he had so carefully and uncharacteristically gently placed upon my arm was _trembling_. I took note then of the intense anguish that seemed to be radiating from behind me. And it was harmless really. Just his hand on my arm, was it so terrible? I couldn't imagine how difficult it must've been for this man to try and sleep, knowing that he was alone in the bed he had intended to share with the woman he loved.

I settled and let the simple contact continue. He made no move to increase the contact but it took another while yet for his trembling to cease. Once it had, I felt myself calm and slip into an undisturbed sleep. In retrospect, I slept unbelievably well after such a day.

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Thank you so much to everyone that reviewed! I hope I can meet your expectations. It isn't easy for me to keep serious, being a comic writer. But I am trying to better myself so criticism are welcome! Of course, praise is as well... if you would be so kind. 

Please, please, please review! Feedback is extremely helpful. Plus I am addicted. Thank you for reading!


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